


I mean it's not lying so much as hardcore omission of facts

by ApatheticLexicographer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Cheesy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humanstuck, Journalist!Karkat, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Not Alpha timeline, alpha!dave - Freeform, barista!karkat, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApatheticLexicographer/pseuds/ApatheticLexicographer
Summary: Dave is a celebrity with a Starbucks addiction. Karkat is a barista and aspiring journalist. They’re both about as perceptive as bricks. Shenanigans, naturally, ensue.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 7
Kudos: 123





	I mean it's not lying so much as hardcore omission of facts

You grit your teeth, plastering a smile on your face. “Hello sir, what can I get for you today?” 

The hipster blond in front of the counter grins at you, brushing a strand of hair back into his beanie and out of his red eyes. “Your number?” His thick Texan accent is rich and warm, like melted syrup or-

Goddammit. You really need to get this crush under control, it’s totally unprofessional. You can’t date a customer! Even if the situation reminds you of something out of a romcom, you aren't the type of brainless wonder who copies everything they see in movies. It certainly doesn’t help that he keeps flirting with you, either. He’d probably stop pretty quickly if he knew that you’re actually into guys, let alone into him.

You shake your head, rolling your eyes. “Cut the bullshit Dave. I’m a barista, not a hooker, in case you’ve somehow lost the ability to see me in all my pudgy majesty.” You gesture toward your short, dumpy body; one of your many sources of self hatred ever since you were a teenager.

He pouts at you with reproachful eyes. It does NOT look adorable and you definitely don't feel an overwhelming urge to blush like a fucking shoujo protagonist. “Now that’s just demeaning. You’re fuckin precious, don’t lower your self worth like that. And you aint pudgy, you’re chubby, it’s way cuter. ” He sounds weirdly earnest, almost like he actually gives a shit about you. Ha.

You glower at him insincerely, hands on your hips in a doomed attempt to seem more assertive. “Are you actually going to order anything or are you just going to stand there and annoy me? I do actually have at least a little work ethic.” 

Dave smirks. “One butterscotch frappuccino with three pumps of caramel syrup. Honestly, I’ve been coming here for long enough, don’t you have that shit memorised?” You do, in fact, remember his order, but you aren’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. You actually have several of your regular customers orders memorized but it feels a lot more embarrassing when Dave enters the equation.

When his drink is ready Dave sits right back down at the counter, of course. Bastard’s just lucky that most people visit the much bigger branch down the street at this time of day or he’d be even more of a nuisance. But no, he always comes when the shop is practically empty. It could almost be misconstrued as respectful. 

When neither of you make a move to say anything Dave pulls his laptop out and starts writing something. You’ve never bothered to ask what it is that he works on while he’s here out of fear of seeming too nosy. It’s probably just work stuff anyway, not that you know what his job is.

It’s kind of weird actually. He’s been coming here at the same time every Thursday for at least a year and you always end up chatting to him, and yet you hardly know anything about the guy. He was born here in Houston, unlike you who moved here for college and never left. You think he mentioned living in California at some point? He has at least 1 sister, he likes apple juice, and he refuses to drink coffee that isn’t like 90% sugar. His taste in memes is total shit and he’s genuinely terrified of the Muppets. That’s about all you know really. It’s not exactly a lot when you consider how long you've known him and it's certainly not much to base a relationship on, not like he’d ever date you anyway.

You clear your throat, wracking your head for conversation topics to distract you from the oncoming wistful sadness. “Hey, Dave? What do you think about D Strider?”

Dave splutters on his straw, flecks of coffee spraying all over his "ironic" plaid shirt and the keyboard of his macbook. What a fucking dork. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, reaching for a wad of napkins to wipe his shirt and laptop down with. “Shit, uh, why do you ask?” He sounds strained, and while he seems to be trying his hardest to act normal you notice sweat beading on his brow.

You shoot him a quizzical look. “Just wondering, Jesus. I hardly know anything about the guy, just that he makes ludicrously popular movies and has more money than I’ll make in my entire life. He’s pretty secretive from what I can tell? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of his face.” You tilt your head a little.

Dave finishes cleaning up, his cheeks dusted with pink. “Just kind of a random question is all. You don’t particularly seem like the type to enjoy his stuff.” He squirms slightly, evidently embarrassed.

You chuckle softly and shake your head, still a little bemused. “I’m not. Saying that I think his movies are utter garbage would be a gross understatement and his persona is irritating as fuck. I’m interviewing him next week though, so I figured I’d ask. If nothing goes to shit I’ll get a promotion and I won’t have to work at Starbucks on my days off.” You sneer and roll your eyes. “With my luck though I'll screw it up enough to be working here full time.” You shiver at the thought. You like your "actual" job a whole fucking lot and you really don’t want to lose it. Even if you write for a pretentious arts magazine it’s a damn sight better than regurgitating the same old mainstream gossip column crap you’d have to write about if you worked for a more well known publication. Sorry honey, even you aren’t quite that willing to part with your soul for easy money. Yet.

Dave stares at you blankly, his handsome face a stony wall of stoicism. “Interviewing.”

You sigh, acting a lot more put off than you actually feel. “Yes Dave, interviewing. It’s pretty fucking standard when you’re trying to pursue a career in journalism. Or what, did you think I spent my working hours writing vapid fluff pieces? I have some artistic integrity, give me a break.”

He swallows, somehow managing to look even paler than usual. “I didn’t know you were a journalist?” His voice lilts up at the end.

That… is surprising to hear. Surely it must have come up in conversation at some point? Or maybe not? It’s hard to remember what you have and haven’t talked about when you’ve known each other for so long. “Yeah? It’s basically why I moved to Houston in the first place. There's a lot more opportunities for a fledgeling journalist here than in Fuckoffsville, Colorado. Back home the only things there are to write about are hiking accidents and local politics.” You grimace. Interning for the local paper when you were in highschool taught you jack all except how to operate their ancient coffee machine.

“Ah.” He mulls over that for entirely too long, before smiling shakily. “Well, I think D Strider’s pretty fucking rad. He has a dope ass sense of humor, for starters, not to mention he’s incredibly talented. Bet the man could lay down some sick fires if you asked. Actually that would be great, ask him to do that when you interview him and I’ll love you forever.” Dave seems to be back to normal now, the tension in his body slowly releasing.

You groan, ignoring the way his last few words set your heart aflutter as you easily slip back into your normal banter. “Oh god, don’t tell me you’re a huge fanboy with Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff posters plastered all over your room.”

Dave just smirks.

oOo

You adjust your simple black tie nervously, your foot tapping a desperate beat against the gleaming floor tiles. The hostess scrutinizes you from her perch behind the front desk, taking in your maroon dress shirt and black jeans, finished off with your signature too-heavy eyeliner. Kanaya would probably kill you if she knew how underdressed you are but it’s not your fault that you didn’t have the spare cash to rent a suit. You work part time at Starbucks for christ's sake, you aren’t exactly rolling in it. The hostess clears her throat, bringing you out of your internal griping. “Do you have a reservation?” Judging by her bored tone she’d rather be literally anywhere else. You can relate to that.

“Uh, yeah, I’m with Prospit Arts Magazine? There should be a reservation…” You struggle to keep anxious thoughts about surprise cancellations at bay and fail miserably.

She looks at something behind the counter, you can’t see whether it’s a book or a screen, before glancing back up at you with utter disinterest. “Karkat Vantas?” You nod frantically. The hostess points an immaculately manicured finger toward the restaurant's entrance. “Go up and a server will be with you shortly to direct you to your table.” She turns to the guests behind you, leaving you to wander up the spiral staircase and into the restaurant.

It’s breathtaking, to say the least. Skaia is the most prestigious restaurant in Houston for a reason, after all. The dining hall itself is located at the very top of a skyscraper with a gorgeous view of the city. It has no roof or walls, just a giant glass dome that magnifies the sky in a true marvel of construction genius. The circular floor of the room has lights embedded in it that change colour and brightness to compliment the sky throughout the day, adding to the ethereal experience. Currently the cloudless sky is a warm peachy colour, trapped somewhere between light and darkness. The moon and a few stars are just beginning to make themselves visible through the dusky haze.

“Mr Vantas?” A server appears seemingly from nowhere, white shirt neatly tucked into his black uniform pants. “Your table is right this way, sir.” You nod stupidly and follow him through the large space to the opposite edge of the room. The unoccupied table he leads you to is right beside the glass in a prime position to watch the city below. You don’t want to think about how much it must have cost to reserve.

You sit down, straightening your shirtsleeves in an attempt to look a little classier. The waiter smiles artificially. “Should I bring you a menu while you wait for your companion, sir?”

“Oh, yes please. Thank you.” You nod to him awkwardly, unsure of the proper etiquette in a place this fancy. He scurries off and you turn to the gently curving glass, staring out across the rooftops pensively as you try to pass the time before Strider shows up.

oOo

Oh god oh god oh fuck oh fuck. You’re freaking out about this, dammit. You thought you had it under control! Just goes to show that you can never trust your own self confidence, particularly when pretty boys are involved.

When you first ‘made it big’ in Hollywood you were ecstatic. Goodbye Dave from Texas, hello D Strider, LA’s newest enigma. Yours was a regular rags to riches tale, the kind of shit they put in storybooks to give deadbeat kids a sliver of hope that they might make a life for themselves. You reveled in the attention for the first few years, finding the change of pace exhilarating. Inevitably though the glitz and glam of opulent mansions and high-profile parties began to wear off and you were left desperate for a slice of normalcy. Which is how you ended up back in Houston.

At first you had been a little unsure about the move. It’s not like you had the greatest memories from your childhood apartment, after all. But even if that place was more of a prison to you, the city was always home. And yeah, your new apartment might have been a penthouse suite but it was a hell of a downsize from your place back in LA.

It was pretty nice, you had to admit. It became even nicer after a trip to your local Starbucks to write scripts introduced you to a certain grumpy barista. Because Karkat is really cute with his floofy black ringlets, his smooth olive skin and his wide, silvery eyes. He’s more than cute in fact, he’s hard working and passionate and overly emotional and you have a bigger crush on him than you’d like to admit. Seeing him became the highlight of your week, as ridiculous as that might sound coming from a multi-millionaire. It was always so reassuring knowing that there was someone who you could talk to who didn’t know about your career and judged everything you did on an objective basis. But when you found out that he was the guy who was supposed to be interviewing you? Hhhhholy shit.

At the time it freaked you out, sure, but you figured it couldn’t be thaaaat bad. So what if he learns that you’re secretly an insanely rich Hollywood director, who he’s openly admitted to disliking. You’re friends, surely he won’t mind that much?

Bullshit! He’s gonna hate you, you know it. You’ll just have to stay in this nicely decorated bathroom stall forever, wallowing in your own shame. Except you can’t because you have an interview that you’re already fifteen minutes late for and a reputation that you don’t particularly want tarnished. Maybe you could just pretend that you don’t know who Dave is? No, forget it, Karkat's too smart for that. He’ll put two and two together as soon as he sees you, you’ve known each other for more than a year after all. Unless you pretended that you’re Dave’s identical twin brother? Would that work? You’re 99% sure that it wouldn’t but fuck it, those are odds you’re willing to bet on if it means getting you out of this extreme fuckup.

Okay, no. You’re going to man up and quit stalling (hah). You’ll go out there and have a Real Mature Adult Conversation with the cute journalist and then you’ll apologise to him like a million times and pray to the eldritch abominations that your friendship is still salvageable.

… In a few minutes, that is.

oOo

You frown, checking your watch for what feels like the millionth time. It’s been almost an hour; your first drink is finished and the sky is an inky blue yet there’s still no sign of Strider. Your boss will be having strong words with his manager, that’s for sure. You pity the poor bastard who gets on PM’s bad side, the woman can make grown men cry. You can kiss goodbye to that promotion, too, although at least you won’t be fired since him not showing up isn’t your fault. You suppose you can put up with working your second job for a while longer as long as Dave is there to keep you company.

You hear a quiet cough nearby. Your head jerks up in surprise, half expecting to see a pissed off waiter wondering why you haven't ordered anything to eat. You let out a small gasp when you see who it is.

“Dave? What the fuck are you doing here? And why are you…” You give him a quick once over. His attire is honestly a lot more fitting than you might have expected, and holy shit is his suit made of velvet? He looks good in a suit, no surprises there, but he could probably ditch the shades. His eyes are really pretty, he’s doing the world an injustice by hiding them behind a pair of dorky aviators. 

He shifts awkwardly in place. “Hah, yeah. About that. Can I sit?” He gestures to the empty chair in front of you. You sigh, setting your second drink down on the table next to the empty glass.

“Go ahead. It’s been an hour, if this guy was coming he would’ve been here a long time ago.” He winces a little at that, which is weird. “So, mind telling me how a no good hipster like you ended up at a highly exclusive restaurant?”

He groans, slumping back into the chair like he’s deflating. “I was supposed to be meeting a guy.” You switch into sympathy mode instantly, reaching out a hand in comfort.

“Oh shit man, I’m sorry. Being stood up for a date always sucks, let alone at a place this expensive.”

“Not for a date!” he cries, flapping his hands about frantically as his face turns cherry red. “It was a work thing! And technically I was the one who did the standing up, not him. He’s a gentleman, he’d never leave a guy hanging.”

You frown, shuffling the glasses aside a little to rest your elbows on the table. “Why would you stand him up but stick around in the restaurant?”

Dave somehow manages to blush even brighter. “To be honest man I’ve been holed up in the bathroom for the past hour trying to hide from him. I wouldn’t blame him if he left a long time ago. I deserve it for how shitty I’ve been.”

You tilt your head slightly, arms crossing as you lean further forward. “Still doesn’t explain why you stood him up in the first place, though.”

Dave laughs bitterly, running a hand through his silky looking hair. “You really haven’t figured it out, have you? Imma be honest, I thought you’d be on my ass about it way sooner, what with the whole journalist shtick.”

You huff slightly. Goddamn cryptic bullshit. “Dave, what are you-” He reaches forward, slipping the shades off and staring intently at you. You feel like there’s something more behind his gaze, but you can’t quite tell what.

“Did I ever tell you my full name?” The question comes at you out of left field, a seeming non sequitur. 

You frown incredulously, unsure if you’re missing something about the situation. “I guess not? Is that really important right now though?” He ignores you, reaching a fist out like he wants you to bump it.

“Sup Karkat Vantas. I’m Dave Strider, at your service.”

oOo

Karkat stares at you in blank incomprehension, totally ignoring your outstretched fist. You wave it a little. “Come on man, don’t leave me hanging like this.”

He growls softly in the back of his throat. “What. The. FUCK?!?” Karkat slams his hands down on the table, rattling the condiment tray and making the glasses wobble precariously, the full one splashing some of its contents across the tablecloth and both of you. “You mean to tell me that this WHOLE TIME you’ve just been lying to my face about who you are? Has anything you’ve told me been true, or have you just been spouting off bullshit to cover your lying ass? Are we-” his face crumples in a way that makes your heart throb, hands balling up around the tablecloth. “Are we even friends, Dave?”

You splutter desperately. “Woah, woah, woah dude, chill out. Don’t wanna get us kicked out for disturbing the peace or some shit. And I mean it’s not lying so much as hardcore omission of facts. I haven’t lied to you about anything.”

Karkat recovers from his vulnerability, expression hardening to an icy glare. “Sure, you didn’t lie, you just neglected to mention that you’re a honest to fucking god MILLIONAIRE MOVIE DIRECTOR with WAYYYY better things to be doing than hanging around with my sorry ass! I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAD A CRUSH ON YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT” He pants slightly, the words hanging heavily between you as he stares straight at you, steely gray boring into delicate crimson. After a minute has passed Karkat pales substantially, a hand coming up to his mouth in seeming disbelief. “Ffffffffuck.” He pushes his chair back, gives you one last terrified glance and rushes into the crowd of enraptured onlookers. Fuck, this is already all over people’s instagram stories, isn’t it?

“Karkat, wait! Shit!” You abandon the table and stumble after him, almost tripping on your shoes in your haste. As you rush you see the expressions of several of the people watching, ranging from wide-eyed curiosity at the celebrity drama to irritated glares for interrupting their meal. You make it down the entry staircase before coming up short, unable to spot his small form and black curls amid the queuing patrons. You skid to a stop and scan the lobby desperately until one of the elevators dings, announcing its arrival.

The elevators, of course! He must have gone downstairs! As you start toward the lift that just arrived you see its doors closing, already full and on its way down. Shit. If you have to wait for another one there’s no way you’ll get downstairs before Karkat makes his way out of your life, and then you’ll be humiliated AND heartbroken. Only one thing for it.

You dart into the emergency stairwell and let the door slam closed behind you, trying to eyeball the dizzying height of the stairs. You’re on the 65th floor, if you flashstep all the way you can be at the base in about two minutes, including pauses to breathe. 

…

God, you don’t want to do this. It reminds you too much of a different set of stairs, perpetually sticky with blood. But the alternative? Losing Karkat as a friend, let alone anything else? It’s unimaginable. You at least need a chance to explain everything to him, and if he still pushes you away then it’s your own fucking fault for not talking to him sooner.

Here goes nothing. You breathe in, out, in again and GO

oOo

You slink your way out of the building and onto the dark sidewalk, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed into your pockets. God, could you have possibly fucked that up any more than you did? Sure, Dave might not have been honest with you in the past, but he didn’t seem to be malicious about it. Hell, he has a right to privacy about that shit. He was actually trying to come clean with you and you just had to be a huge dick about it, ruining any semblance of a friendship between the two of you in the process. And of course your terribly timed confession was just the offal cherry on the shit cake, wasn’t it. Congratu-fucking-lations Vantas, you can kiss goodbye to ever seeing your crush again.

You stop under the nearest streetlight and pull out your phone to call an Uber, choking back the tears that prickle at the backs of your eyes. Forget that promotion, you’ll certainly be fired for that little stunt. Holy shit, nobody will ever hire you again with a black mark like this next to your name. You’d better get used to making overpriced coffees without having Dave there to distract you.

“Karkat, hold your horses dude!” You whip around to see Dave; sweaty, red faced and puffing like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “Holy, haah, fuck that was a lot of stairs.”

You quickly pocket your phone and cross your arms defensively. “Why are you here, Dave? Haven’t I already embarrassed myself enough for one night?” The tears in your eyes start to spill over, running down your cheeks at a rapidly increasing pace and ruining your eyeliner.

Dave’s head jerks up as he rushes forward to you. “Hey, hey, don’t cry. Jesus, you didn’t even give me a chance to respond to anything you said back there.” He reaches a strong hand forward, grasping your shoulder firmly.

A curl of self loathing flickers in your gut, squeezing tightly as you flinch away from his touch. “I’m sorry, okay, I’m really fucking sorry. I was hurt and confused and I overreacted, and now you’ll be banned from the restaurant and the paparazzi will start hounding you about it and I’m SORRY, goddammit, what more do you want from me?” You shoot him a pleading look as your vision begins to blur.

Dave’s eyes crinkle and he looks so sad that it almost makes you forget your own situation (keyword: almost). He wraps you in a hug, tucking your head under his chin and you melt instantly, hiccupping softy into his collar as the tears continue to come. He shushes you, rubbing your back in a way you can’t help but find reassuring.

The two of you probably only stand like that for a few minutes, but hours could have passed for all that you notice.

“I don’t blame you for blowing up at me like that, you know. T’ be honest I probably wouldna taken that shit any better. Fuck, it was selfish of me not to say anythin sooner but I was so scared to lose you, in case you started to act different with me because I’m famous or some shit. That probably sounds totally inane but when everyone’s always up in your business it’s so refreshing to have a guy there who’ll just shoot the shit with you and not fuss over everything you do, y'know? You don’t treat me like I’m some kind of media figurehead, you just treat me like I’m Dave. Not a lot of people do that anymore.”

His tone is soothing and his dorky (hot) accent is especially prominent. It lulls you, slowly softening your despair.

Dave runs a hand through your hair, tangling his fingers at the back of your head. You shudder slightly at the touch. He licks his lips and your eyes follow the movement. “Did you mean it?”

“Huh?” You blink at him groggily. Fuck him and his charming Texan voodoos for putting you under his spell. You hate that you love it.

Dave swallows. “What you said about, uh, liking me?” He flushes but his eyes don’t wander from your own. You feel a prickle of self consciousness return and squirm a little in his embrace.

“Does it matter?” Your voice is scratchy from shouting and stuffy from your tears. You sound just as bad as you know you must look, with eyeliner infused tears drying on your flushed cheeks and the remnants of your overpriced booze setting into your shirt.

Dave looks you in the eyes and his face is so soft, so vulnerable and naked. You’ve seen his eyes countless times before but it’s never felt intimate like this, you think dimly. “Yeah. It does matter.” And then-

Oh.

And then he kisses you.

It’s just a gentle press of lips against yours, barely even moving, but you practically swoon. Before he gets the wrong idea you start to kiss him back just as delicately, basking in the sweetness of the moment. You’re a fucking sap, you’ll admit it, but judging by the way he’s kissing you Dave is just as bad.

When the two of you part he smiles gently, rubbing little circles in the back of your neck with his fingers. “I’ve wanted to do that for at least a year.”

The utter stupidity of the situation suddenly hits you like a speeding truck and you snort helplessly. Dave pulls back slightly, evidently confused, and you fucking lose it, howling into his shirt.

“Hah-holy shit, Dave, we’re fu-uh-cking idiots!” He pouts a little and that just makes you laugh harder. “I-I thought you were straight!”

“What?! How? I’ve been fucking flirting with you since we met you absolute tool!” By this point he’s joined you in laughter, hiding his grin in your hair as you clutch each other happily.

“Speak for yourself, we could have avoided all of this if you’d just talked to me from the beginning!” He cringes slightly but still chuckles.

“Okay, yeah, I deserved that. I guess I’m the real moron here.”

“But you’re my moron.” Your brain takes a few seconds to catch up with what you just said, all the nervousness that had bled away instantly returning. “I mean! If you want! I know a kiss doesn’t automatically mean we’re dating, shit that was so presumptuous of me I-”

“Karkat.” You can still hear the amusement in his voice, although it’s taken on a much more… flirtatious tone. He leans in closer and you instantly quit running your stupid mouth, focusing only on the smell of his shampoo (apple) and the tempo of his pulse (still just as fast as yours).

He presses a kiss to your cheek, so softly you barely feel his lips. “I would love to be your moron.” You inhale sharply, heartbeat stuttering as you’re filled with a giddy elation.

“Fuck you for making that sound sexy, Dave.” You shove him lightly, but the grin on your face gives you away. “You owe me a new shirt, by the way. This one’s ruined beyond anything my local laundromat can solve.”

“Babe,” Dave says, face completely serious. “I will buy you all the fucking shirts.”

You just laugh and pull him closer, not caring who sees. Fuck, you’re in this for the long haul, aren’t you?

**Author's Note:**

> Cheesy af and the pacing's kinda whack but hey what can ya do


End file.
